


In The Woods Somewhere

by Frostyunicorn300



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Covens, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Femdom, Hauntings, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Immortality, Light BDSM, London is not what it appears to be, Manipulation, Mild Painplay, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nightmares, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Potions, Seduction, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Smut, Spells & Enchantments, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Supernatural Elements, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Title from a Hozier Song, Witch Hunters, Witchcraft, Witches, conflicted feelings, dark themes, it can get dangerous at night, things get complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-08 14:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15932024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostyunicorn300/pseuds/Frostyunicorn300
Summary: A walk in a woods leads fifteen year old Sherlock Holmes to the house of a strange woman, seemingly stuck in the 1800s, living alone with her pet crow Nocturne. She invites him in for tea. Later when Sherlock excuses himself for the bathroom he discovers something strange about the woman, something that he is unwilling to accept the truth of.Years go by and he now lives comfortably on Baker Street with his new flatmate and friend, John Watson, when he spots her. The same exact woman, she looks up at him through his window, Sherlock feels his blood run cold and the memories of her haunting his dreams fills the detective's head. The woman disappears into the apartments next to his own. He can hear the crow she keeps as it lands on the metal rails outside his window, and he whispers, "Èmilie."





	1. The Woman in the Woods

It was late November and it was positively freezing.   
The rain that had fallen that morning was beginning to frost over the leaves on the ground. There was still an overcast of clouds, varying shades of grey and white, threatening to spill rain once more.  
Sherlock Holmes–just fifteen–had no idea where he was, originally he had promised to stay close to the house but ended up wandering, completely lost now, he felt like he had been going around in circles, seemingly endless.   
The smell of dead leaves invaded his nose as he walked, they made no crunch under his shoes, they weren't far from becoming a mess of decay.   
The trees around him were nearly bare, only a few leaves of orange and red clung onto their branches and the bark was dull, seemingly devoid of any life.   
It was almost silent, but he could hear the sound of crows and squirrel scurrying up a tree.   
A sharp, crisp wind blew behind him, making the boy shiver and reach for the gloves in his pocket. He passed over a hill, slipping on the leaves. A few yards in the distance sat a house. It was three stories tall, in second empire architecture from the Victorian Era.   
The faded bricks suggested it was once a dark red. The wood outside was a strange mix of brown and grey, rotting in some places. There were many windows, some cracked and boarded up, the wraparound porch was home to a series of spiderwebs, none of them unoccupied. It was creepy and unsettling, something out of a horror film.   
From the attic window he could see movement, a shadow.   
He took a step back, foot landing on a twig, it snapped under his weight. Suddenly a crow cawed loudly and frightened him. It flew from an open window and landed on a tree. The air grew ominous and Sherlock became afraid.   
His mind somehow couldn't comprehend what might come from the house, if there was anything in there at all.   
He should run, but he was stuck somehow, looking at the house.   
Suddenly the old door creaked open so loudly. A boot was the first thing he saw, it was pointed, black with laces, coming up to the mid-calf. The heel was in the shape of a spool and the leather seemed well worn.   
The rest of the body followed.   
It was a woman.  
Young and pale with mahogany hair.   
She wore a skirt in dark red, it was long, touching the ground.   
Her bodice matched the colour of her skirt, it buttoned at the front and the collar touched the top of her neck, the sleeves were long, coming to the bottom of her wrists, it looked like a day dress from the 1880s.   
Her hair was in a loose bun on her head, a few pieces had fallen out, curling around her face and neck.   
Everything about this seemed like he stepped back in time.   
Panic seeped into his bones as she started to walk towards him. As she got closer he could make out her face. It was oval shaped with a straight nose. Her eyes were cat-like with golden irises, warm like honey.   
Her lips weren't overly full but complimented her face with a defined cupids bow.   
She was beautiful by society's standards and the standards of a fifteen year old boy.   
When she got to him she stood up straight. He could smell her, she smelled like fallen leaves and rain, fresh coffee and earth with a touch of cinnamon and clove.   
He was just shorter than she was, but she wasn't very tall herself.   
The woman noticed how he shook and smiled, opening her mouth, "poor thing," she said, her voice was warm and soothing, holding a sort of hypnotic quality. "You must be freezing." In her voice she held traces of a French accent, not strong but it was there.   
She held out her hand for him, he noticed her fingernails first, almond shaped and devoid of any polish. "Come." She commanded. The curly haired boy was wary at first, every child would be when faced with a complete stranger but somehow he knew he could trust her, he couldn't explain it.   
He took her hand. Her skin was soft but cold like death, matching the decay around them. When she turned around to lead him into the house he saw the bustle, she was truly dressed like a Victorian lady, but why?   
The wood under the stairs groaned in protest of his feet, but not her own. She opened the door and led him inside. To his surprise it wasn't decrepit nor rotting inside. It was immaculately clean. He was greeted by stairs, mahogany wood with red carpet. Above was a chandelier, lined with round electric lights and many crystals. Artwork on the walls, famous pantings, portraits of people and still life's. He looked to his left at the red velvet chair placed randomly by the coatrack.   
The woman turned to face him. "You can sit in the drawing room if you'd like, I have a fire going and its plenty warm in there. Do you prefer tea? Coffee? Hot apple cider?"   
Sherlock turned to her, "...tea please." She gave a nod and disappeared into the kitchen.   
As he walked down the hall he noticed that this house was completely void of any electricity other than the lights, no television, radio, telephone, nothing. When he stepped into the drawing room he took it in.   
It was cozy, and dark, she has the curtains pulled shut and the fire illuminated the room in a orange glow. Again he was plunged into the Victorian Era, in the furniture and over all feel of the home. He felt so out of place, but she did not. He wondered how or why anyone would want to live like this, without the advancements of modern society.   
When he walked in he quickly noticed the grand piano in the room, shiny and black with white ivory keys. On the music rack sat parchment, an unfinished composition. The name was in French, he couldn't understand.   
Continuing his exploration he found–quite easily, the organ against the wall, ornate and gold. Suddenly the door opened and she stood there with a tea tray and a warm smile on her face.   
"Sit down, please." She nodded to one of the brown sofa's.   
He slowly made his way over and sat down.   
She followed and started serving.   
"You must have questions." She said, without looking at the boy.   
Sherlock nodded, "yes...who are you?"   
She handed him the tea cup, it was white with gold detail. He held it in his hands and looked down at the tea.   
"Oh how terribly rude of me," she chuckled.   
"Émilie Destler," she introduced.   
"Sherlock Holmes."   
Her smile was warm, golden eyes crinkling. "It's nice to meet you, Sherlock."   
He nodded in agreement.   
"So...do you live here?" He asked, glancing at the large grandfather clock.   
"Uh, yes. I do." Her laugh was airy and short. She brought the cup to her lips and drank, he did the same. The tea had a spice to it, perhaps clove? Cinnamon? He couldn't quite place it, but it warmed his body quickly.   
"Is there anyone else in the house?" He asked,  
Émilie shook her head, "no, it's just me and Nocturne."   
"Nocturne?" He questioned, suddenly he heard the flapping of bird wings and a caw. A crow suddenly flew into the room and landed on a perch by the mantle.   
"Is that..."  
"Yes, he was the one who flew from the window, I hope she didn't frighten you."   
Sherlock shook his head, "no."   
"Good."   
Sherlock sat forward, anxiety radiating down to his fingertips, he was afraid to ask the question but he did anyway.   
"How old are you?"   
Émilie pulled her lips into a thin line. She seemed displeased at the question to Sherlock's eyes, but to his surprise she answered, "very." She said, it was all she said regarding her age. The more Sherlock studied her face he was convinced she couldn't be no more than twenty-five.

There was silence, awkward silence. Finally in the middle of it all Sherlock set his cup down and asked for the washroom. Émilie told him there were several in the house but the quickest one was on the second floor to his left.   
Sherlock nodded and began his assent.   
The upstairs was like the downstairs, same furniture and artwork, electric lights on the walls, illuminating the deep red wallpaper. There were many doors, all of them closed. His curiosity got the better of him, he opened the doors one by one.   
The first was a bathroom like she said, a deep clawfoot bath, toilet and sink, as well as towels and other decorations.   
The next door was a bedroom, it was small and neutral colours, there was a crib by the window, round with white trim. Why does she have a nursery if she's all alone?   
The next door held another bedroom for children, another for grown adults. All the doors on this floor were pretty much bedrooms and bathrooms. He counted five and four.   
Looking around he went back to the stairs and went up, to the third floor.   
Two large mahogany doors greeted him. Inside was a library, large bookcases lined the walls, a writing desk by the window, a chaise lounge and chairs. There was a fireplace and a chess table. Closing the door he tried the others, but they were either locked or boarded up with bricks and wood.   
He figured that was the end of his tour when he noticed a string dangling from the ceiling. Tentatively he pulled and had to take a step back, another staircase fell out, he recoiled and listened for her footsteps, but found none. Slowly he walked up, this must be the attic.  
The walls were red brick covered in cloth and the ceiling was bare.   
Somehow up here, another fireplace, there was still a fire roaring inside.   
A bookcase against the wall, holding many old, leather bound books, all in French. She had a work table off to the side, covered in dried herbs and flowers, a large black pot sat in the middle of the room on a pyre. Sherlock thought it resembled a cauldron, like in all the old witch stories he was told as a child.   
But it couldn't be that, surely not, no.   
As he explored he pushed the rocking chair, it creaked and went back and forth. This took him to the round window, the same window he saw the movement from earlier...so it was her.   
What he saw next made his blood run cold and he slowly became distressed with each passing moment. Jars full of eyes, fingers, tongues, batwings, a human hand in a jar of brine.   
Rat tails, dead spiders, bones.   
There were bottles labeled in French again, containing liquid of all colours. Stepping away from the shelf he touched something and bit his lip to not scream. Relief shot threw him as he realized it was just an old straw broom. But it seemed to move in his grip, trying to escape, he let it go and it continued sweeping–on its own.   
Everywhere he seemed to look now he found something he'd rather not see, human skulls and bones, jars of blood, he couldn't tell if it belonged to a person or an animal and he didn't want to know, he really didn't.   
The books on the shelves now appeared to be covered in skeletons and eyes, watching him. He was uneasy and he was dizzy. He had to leave, go back downstairs and run away. But before he could he spotted something, hanging on a hook, a hat, wide brimmed with a buckle and pointy–a witches hat.   
This couldn't be real, had he walked into the house of a witch? Had she lured him here? Did she make him lose his way? What did she plan do with him? Kill him? Eat him? He didn't know and he didn't want to stay to find out.   
Quickly he ran back downstairs, and was going for the door when he couldn't tell which one it was, there were three of them. Breathing heavily he opened one and stepped through, but he wasn't outside, he stood in her Louis Philippe room. It was quiet, eerie, he could her his heartbeat thump loudly in his ears, lungs burning from his frantic breathing. Sensing something he turned, she stood there, smile on her lips and hands crossed in front of her body. "Are you alright, jeune homme?" She asked, her voice still held that hypnotic quality and was still so warm and inviting, it almost made him want to stay.   
Slowly he opened his mouth and spoke, "I want to go home." He said, voice barely above a whisper.   
Émilie nodded, "if that is what you wish, I shall take you home."   
Suddenly she raised her hand, waving her fingers in front of his eyes. He stood there, transfixed on nothing, eyes fogged.   
"Come with me," she spoke, leading him from the room and upstairs. Opening one of the doors she led him inside and took off his outerwear, pulling the covers back she laid him in the bed and tucked him in.   
"Sleep," she commanded and his eyes closed. 

Sherlock awoke with a start, a scream leaving his lips. Clutching the blanket in his trembling fingers he looked around, he was in his room. He didn't remember getting here, how did he get here? His door opened, letting in the light from the hallway. His father stood there, concerned. "Are you okay, son?"   
"Yes," he said, rubbing his eyes, "I...just had a bad dream, that's all."   
Mr Holmes nodded and closed the door. Sherlock reached and turned on his lamp, but when he did he noticed something on his table, a feather, sleek and black. It was from a crow.   
He held it in his hand, the memories flooding back, the strange woman, the house, the room in the attic. Suddenly his nostrils were assaulted with her scent; fallen leaves and rain, fresh coffee and earth with a touch of cinnamon and clove.   
He smelled like her, smelled like that house. Her scent marked his skin.   
And no matter how much he scrubbed and washed his body till it was pink and raw, he couldn't get rid of it. It was a part of him now.   
She was a part of him. He feared there truly was no escape from the woman in the woods.


	2. Love's Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I wrote this chapter drunk. So if it sucks, that's why.

She haunted him.   
He couldn't escape her, everywhere he went she followed.   
It was an early December night in 2009, he was twenty-eight, quite a step up from his fifteen years.   
But even as a man he couldn't escape her eyes, burning gold, piercing his very soul as she watched from the darkness. 

In sleep she sang to him. 

Quietly in her voice, a warm soprano, he could not understand the words but the sound of her voice, oh, it was like silk, liquid gold. Intoxicating, hypnotic to its very core. There were a few nights where he swore he woke to her, sitting on the edge of his bed, she held a oil lamp in her hand, her mahogany hair was down, falling past her shoulders and down to her waist, little baby hairs curled on her forehead and by her ears and her long silky waves. He somehow so desperately wanted to run his fingers through, feeling their softness.   
She was free from her dress, wearing her dressing gown in a rich, deep green. He could see her corset poking through, and the swell of her breasts, straining against the fabric. He was paralyzed he found, he couldn't move his body as she sang to him, eyes unblinking.   
"When I was a child, I heard voices  
Some would sing and some would scream  
You soon find you have few choices  
I learned the voices died with me  
When I was a child, I'd sit for hours  
Staring into open flame  
Something in it had a power  
Could barely tear my eyes away..."   
He always slept, without fail his eyelids would grow heavy and he would close them, he would see her face before the darkness took him. 

In dreams she came. 

It wouldn't matter if a dream, or a nightmare, she was there.   
A few nights ago, he dreamed about the tube.   
It was dark somehow even though his phone told him it was midday, the moon took the place of the sun.   
And down in the tunnels, it was even more dark. The lights refused to burn any brighter than a dim, yellow light, distorting the faces of those around him, horrible and twisted in every way. They didn't look human in any way, one man's ears had even replaced his eyes... Suddenly a shorter woman stood next to him, face obscured by her red cloak. She didn't speak, she just stood there.   
When the tube came he got on, turning back to look at her, yet she was no where to be found.   
It wasn't until he was sitting down, she appears beside him, hands resting in her lap. He knew it was her, from the dress, the shape of her nails, the cold radiating off her skin, and the smell. The fallen leaves, the rain, the fresh coffee and earth, cinnamon and clove, completely overwhelming his senses. She said not a word. Sherlock could have moved, he could have ran yet he stayed. He watched the other passengers get off the tube, faces twisted in unnatural ways, murky fog surrounding their heads.   
The tube seemed to keep going, and going and going, with no end destination in sight.  
Suddenly she moved, it was a blur, he hadn't seen her at first. The spot beside him was empty, it unnerved him, he turned and looked out the windows, nothing, he could see nothing. No light, no movement, it was like the world didn't exist out there.   
Turning back around she was standing in front of him, her cloak was gone, he could have screamed, but he didn't. Heart pounding in his chest he just sat there. And God those eyes, he felt helpless looking into them, like a gazelle, pinned down on the Savana ground by a hungry lion.  
And like the lion she pounced on him, her cold lips touched his, moving them in a hungry, lust-filled dance. He melted completely under her touch, falling into a black abyss of nothingness.   
He woke up then, sitting up in his bed, in his room. Shirt clinging to his skin from sweat as he tried to catch his breath. He looked down at his legs, his manhood ached and strained against his pyjama pants.

 

He can't forget her voice.  
That voice which calls to him, and speaks his name.   
"Sherlock..."   
He turned around in the darkness, belstaff coat whipping around him dramatically. He looked but saw nothing there, not a sound, not a movement in the darkness.   
He turned back around, the December air chilling him to his core. He shook like a leaf, holding his coat closer to his lean frame. He went to take a step to continue his journey home–there weren't any cabs running, for it was far to late–somehow a hare was in his path, just sitting, staring up at him with pure black eyes. It shouldn't be unnerving, yet it was. Slowly, tentatively, he walked passed the hare, only to hear the sound of a crow cawing behind him.   
He felt compelled to take a glimpse. Standing there in the place of the hare was a crow, sleek and black. It cawed a second time before flying away, landing on the arm of a woman clad in a deep red cloak, hood obscuring her face from his eyes. She said nothing, she did nothing, just stood, Sherlock had no idea what to expect from her, his brain seemed to shut down the longer she lingered. A strange sensation echoed through his body, a feeling of longing, of desire. His legs began to work against the screaming warnings of his mind, he took a step towards her, and then another. Floating in a zombie-like state. When he reached the woman he towered over her, and she just stood, crow on her arm. Her delicate pale wrist glowed in the moonlight. He opened his mouth to speak, bur his throat was dry and his vocal cords couldn't produce a single sound, so he just stood before her. The woman lifts her head and he cannot see her face, just golden eyes. Suddenly everything begins spinning, he cant find his footing and looses balance, he stumbles, trying to make it to the bench at the bus stop, but he doesn't make it, soon enough his head hits the cool, cold asphalt. Barely conscious, Sherlock stretches his neck to look at the woman, she just turns away with a flourish of her cloak, slipping away into the night. 

______________________________

He didn't known why he went home for the holidays, he hadn't before since he left home, but something inside of him just knew he had too. Since that night all those years ago he searched the woods. Through mud, snow, the harsh and unforgiving summer sun. He searched for the house. He never told anyone what he had experienced then and what was happening now. Nobody would believe him if he did, they'd all think he'd gone mad. But he knew it had happened, and he was determined to find the house, to find her. He wanted an explanation, he wanted to know exactly who she was and what she is. He needed this.   
But he could not find the house.  
He began to second guess himself, think himself crazy after all.   
Don't most geniuses fall into pits of insanity at one point or another?  
But if it had been a trick then why could he still smell her? Why was her scent engraved in his skin?   
Why did every woman who attempted to flirt with him suddenly retreat with a look of fear in their eyes when they got close enough to him?   
He was tall yes, but he wasn't a scary man, a little imposing and intimidating but not enough to cause terror.  
Even Molly Hooper–who he knew had a crush on him–shrunk away when she got too close. She tries to keep away, honest to goodness she does, but her feelings for him makes it difficult on her part, even though without this terrifying aura around his body, he has shown no interest in her romantically.   
Anyway here Sherlock was, it was Christmas Eve, and he was in the middle of the woods, catching his breath on the snowless ground.   
It all seemed lost, he had searched every inch of trees thrice over and has found not a single trace.  
Yet as he sat he recognized where he was, he was at the bottom of the hill he had slipped on years ago, why had he not noticed before? And yet, if this was the spot, where was the house? 

______________________________

Inside Émilie watched him, from the attic window in the house she hid from prying eyes. She followed him all these years, yes, and she was still amazed by how handsome he had grown. How much he looked like him.   
Him, her husband, married five years they were.   
She thinks about him every day, her William Holmes, the only man she ever loved. 

______________________________

1880 

Émilie stood in the Opera foyer with her parents. She had just turned twenty now, and was ready to be married, that is if her parents could drag her away from the Palais Garnier.   
She spent her whole life there, her whole life in France, in Paris.   
Her father was a architect, a brilliant man, a genius, and her mother was the current prima donna, a coloratura–something Émilie was working on becoming herself–but she was facing her last years however, just gracing forty years herself. Her mother was a beautiful woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. Her father was a tall man, quite debonair with locks of mahogany and eyes of gold, quite like she. They were a purely musical family, Émilie was a ballet dancer and was now a vocalist.   
Her mother wished to see her married, but she also hoped her husband would share her passion for music and let her live the way her own husband did.   
They were celebrating the New Year inside the Opera walls, a masquerade ball.   
Émilie stood with her parents, her father dressed in his usual black suit with a colourful mask on his face, it reminded her of a parrot. Her mother was dressed in a green and yellow gown, and a lady pirate mask in matching colours.   
Émilie chose a dress of warm reds, oranges and browns, simple in its design, not as flashy as the other girls but was elegant all the same. Her mask was on a stick, it was in a venetian style with a design that resembles autumn. It was her favourite season, the most beautiful in her opinion and she had been born in the midst of it all.   
In her gloved hand she geld a wine glass and conversed with her mother.   
"Oh look, Émilie, dear," she said, pointing to a man. "He's quite handsome isn't he?"   
Emilie turned to face him. He was average in height, seemingly muscular under his clothing and had a fair face, complete with golden hair. Émilie took a sip of her wine, "I don't think so mother, and it appears that he is married." She said, gesturing to the woman who just took his arm.   
"Oh dear, so it would seem."   
Émilie sighed and her father came to her defence, placing his large hand on the span of her mother's back he said, "try not to force it, mon chérie, let it happen naturally."   
He looked up at his dark haired child and smiled, "why don't you go down there and mingle, ange?" He suggested, "perhaps some of your friends are around."   
Smiling at her fathers soft voice she nodded and handed her glass to one of the server boys walking around.   
Placing her mask against her eyes she descended the stairs.   
The music seemed much more lively, perhaps it was all the dancing and laughter.   
Not soon after she was bombarded by her friends, Lucie, Giselle and Yvette.   
They giggled and circled each other. Lucie was dressed as a fish–a very colourful fish. Giselle was a princess and Yvette...well Yvette just wore a frock of pink with a gold mask.   
Lucie took Émilie's hands in hers and rocked, "oh look at you Millie! You're so beautiful!" She pulled her in close, "I'm jealous!"   
The girls giggled and snorted, "oh please! I'm nothing compare to you! I couldn't help but notice all the patrons who stared at you during our last performance! You are sure to be desired."   
They danced together for a moment, before offering their hands to the other girls.

From the other side of the room, a British man named William Holmes watched them. He was a tall, handsome fellow in his early thirties. He came to Paris a week ago to investigate the murder of one of his own countrymen. When he arrived he and his partner caught the last performance of Guillaume Tell.   
That's when he saw her, as Mathilde. The colours of her costume perfectly against her alabaster skin. Her movements were so fluid, so graceful, she was the epitome of elegance at that moment and her voice, it was unlike anything he'd her heard before in his life.   
He watched form his box, at the edge of his seat, she hadn't noticed him but oh, he wished she had.   
And now here he was, and here she was, dancing with her friends in a dress of warm colours, dark hair done up so perfectly.   
He drank the last of his wine to give him courage.   
His partner looked at him and ground a little, "where are you off too, Holmes?"   
William said not a word, instead his long legs pulled him to where she was, tapping her friend Yvette on the shoulder.  
The girls stopped dancing together and greeted the man properly.   
"Oh! Apologies Monsieur..."   
"May I cut in?" He asked, nodding towards Émilie, who stood there, cheeks pink and not from the rouge.   
He was certainly handsome, and his clear blue eyes weren't bad either. She nodded and pressed her lips together, giving Yvette a smile before he took her hand, leading the girl away. 

They danced the night away it seemed. Her parents watched from above, her mother was overcome with the joy of Émilie possibly finding someone at last.   
And did she.   
It wasn't long after they were married, and Émilie would give one last performance in The Magic Flute as Queen of the Night.   
A role she never would have dreamed of receiving had her mother not requested she got the part, as a final hurrah.   
And she was magnificent, she stole the entire performance, she was all anyone talked about after the final curtain.   
At the end she hoped that she would preform in London.   
William watched her–his wife, perform with a passion he'd never seen.   
Oh how he couldn't wait for them to start with new lives together in the English countryside. He had picked a wonderful house, it was large and grand, red brick and mahogany–like the hairs on her head.   
From the main road there was a smaller one that traveled into the woods, up to the front door.  
For five years they lived happily. During Opera seasons they resided in a flat in the city of London. She would preform and William would solve cases.   
For five years they tried for children, but had no luck, Émilie said that if she cannot have a child they could adopt.   
But that would never come.   
In spring of 1885, William grew ill with Tuberculosis.   
And Émilie scrambled, trying to find some way to cure him. The poor girl never told the man she was a witch, she had gone through five years of marriage without him knowing, and he needn't know.   
Panic seeped into her bones as she tried every potion, every vapour, everything.   
And nothing, she couldn't stop the sickness as it ravaged his body, she couldn't stop the life draining from his eyes.   
She didn't cease her screaming, her pleas for him to wake up, or the salty tears that clouded her vision.   
Her father had to hold her up right during the funeral, for she couldn't stand on her own. He offered to take her back to Paris with him but she couldn't. She still had the house, and she would continue to live there and not as the widow Holmes, but as Destler, yes, she took back her family name.   
Émilie couldn't bare keeping his.   
Shortly after she woke up to the most intense pain she'd ever felt, throwing the blankets away she was faced with blood soaked sheets, blood that poured from between her legs.   
She soon realized that she had miscarried. She had been pregnant, it seemed that the baby was conceived about a week before William fell ill, from what the doctor said.   
And so years passed as she wallowed around that old house, she never sang again, never stepped foot on a stage, she even stopped writing home for a while, that is until her mother kept sending letter after letter after letter, forcing the girl to respond.   
Lucie, Giselle and Yvette visited often. The thee of them were the same as Émilie, witches the lot of them.   
They formed their own coven and it was the first bit of happiness she felt in a long time.   
Decades past and she was still young, gracing twenty-five.   
Émilie had given up on trying to find love, it was a useless, fruitless endeavour. That is until she spotted Sherlock that one autumn day, she recognized him quickly, that face, his hair...and she believed he was her old love lost.   
Her dear William.   
She marked him that day, as witches tend to do with their mates, with her scent on his skin, he was her's and her's forevermore and he would never belong to another, not as long as she was alive.   
And she almost had him now, he was searching for her. And she would have him.   
Her own, dear Sherlock.


	3. To Be Marked By A Witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a mess...a mess.

It was cold, late February.  
Sherlock stared out the window, violin in his hands. His flatmate John sat in his chair, reading the paper. The both of them had moved into Baker Street about a month ago and got comfortable quickly.  
"Anything on today?" John asked.  
"No..." Sherlock drawled, eyes falling on the snow that had fallen hours ago, melting on the sidewalk and causing people to slip.  
John looked up from his paper, narrowing his eyes at the tall man.  
"So, is your plan to just stand there all day?" He asked.  
"Possibly..."

_______________________________

Émilie sat in her drawing room, dressed in a frock of maroon with spice brown lace. Holding a cup of tea in her hands she sat, and pondered. Thinking about her next course of action. Sherlock was a man now, he had been for several years. She could have claimed him years ago but she enjoyed toying with him too much. It was just such fun. Nocturne flew down from her perch and took place on her lap. Émilie hummed, running her fingers through Nocturne's sleek black feathers.  
"I think..." Émilie started, turning her head to stare into the flames of the fireplace. They danced their dance with heat and intensity. A smile grew on the witch's face as she thought. "Perhaps its time for me to collect what is mine." She said, looking down at her companion, "don't you?" Nocturne pushed her head into the palm of her hand, flapping her wings she flew to Émilie's shoulder and sat. Émilie set down her tea cup and stood. Slowly she made her way to the front door, halfway to her destination she waved her hands over her body, changing her clothing into something more time appropriate. Opening the front door she walked, and stepped out of a phone box, a little ways from Baker Street. She took a moment to look around however, she hadn't been to London since her William passed, everything was so much different now. It would take some time to get used to for sure. 

______________________________

From outside the window, all seemed normal. People came and gone from Speedy's, cabs drove past, couples just enjoying their own company as they walked. Suddenly the clouds darkened. It was already overcast so it didn't seem to bother anyone, until it became dark enough for the streetlights to turn on. That's when people noticed. They stopped and stared for a moment, muttering at how strange it was. It was only two in the afternoon, the sun couldn't have possibly set yet. The wind picked up, colder, sharper than usual for February. As Sherlock stood at the window he saw the wind cut the tights on a woman, causing her to yell in alarm. The snow on the ground started to blow, and people turned away from it. Sound, all the sound seemed to have disappeared, leaving everything in an unsettling silence. No one seemed to notice, no one but Sherlock. He turned around briefly to look at John, still sitting in his chair, still reading his paper, like nothing was amiss.  
Turning back to the windows he heard the sound of shoes, tapping on the sidewalk. A woman was walking towards his flat, she was across the street. She could have crossed the road at any time but stood on the edge.  
She wore a black coat, or was it dark brown? Poking out from it was a shirt of maroon, covering her legs was a skirt of plum and orange in plaid. She wore black boots underneath, the same ones from years ago. Her mahogany hair was still long and curled delicately under a wine coloured beanie. Finally he got to her face, her perfect, beautiful face. The same face that has been haunting him for years. He felt his heart stop in his chest, and it grew heavy, far to heavy. His throat closed and mouth went dry. He didn't know whether to back away, call the police or keep staring. She said nothing, though it wasn't like he could hear her if she did anyway. Her gold eyes sparkled in the dark, keeping her hands in her coat pocket she stepped onto the road, and walked. Sherlock's heart beat wildly in his chest, but she never stepped up to his front door, instead she opened the one next to Speedy's and stepped in, into Mrs Turner's share of flats. Suddenly a crow flew in and landed outside his window, staring deep into the detective's eyes.  
"Émilie..." he whispered before the world gave into darkness. 

Slowly he opened his eyes, he was in his bed, but he wasn't alone.  
Sitting on the edge of the bed was Émilie, she was no longer wearing her coat. Her dress had short sleeves, stopping before the elbow. And on her wrist, he hadn't noticed before was a black tattoo, a waining moon. Sherlock scrambled up to the headboard, away from her. He was terrified of this woman and he had every right to be afraid, people would think him mad for not being scared. But that fear would soon subside quickly, he hadn't the faintest about what was about to happen and the future the fates had in store for the detective.  
He waited for her to pounce on him, but she never did. Instead she just gave him a warm, friendly smile and held her hand out to him. Something unseen tugged on his heart. Before he could stop himself he reached out and grabbed her hand.  
Her fingers were so small in his, but her skin was so cold, God, why was her skin so cold? Despite the chill he never pulled away, suddenly her lips opened and she began to sing, Sherlock wondered if John could hear her, he wondered.  
Without knowing it he had crawled over to this woman, curling up with his head in her lap, she sang and she stroked his hair with a soothing gentleness.  
"When I first saw you, the end was soon  
To Bethlehem, it slouched and then  
Must've caught a good look at you  
Give your heart and soul to charity  
'Cause the rest of you, the best of you  
Honey, belongs to me..."  
Sherlock felt his eyes grow heavy, he blinked so slowly, trying to stay awake, he wanted too. He wanted to hear her song. But the soft strokes of her fingers and voice was almost too much.  
"If I was born as a blackthorn tree  
I'd wanna be felled by you, held by you  
Fuel the pyre of your enemies  
Ain't it warmin' you, the world goin' up in flames?  
Ain't it the life where you, you're lightin' off the blaze?  
Ain't it a waste it watch the throwing of the shade?"  
He closed his eyes, lips falling into a smile of content. Émilie felt him snuggle closer to her body, wrapping his arms around her waist. Even though he was falling into a deep sleep she didn't move, she sat there, singing. He was giving into her, easier than she thought, surely he should give some sort of fight, yet he just...gave into the witch on his bed. Perhaps Émilie was more powerful than she had originally thought, considering the mind Sherlock Holmes possessed, it seemed so unlikely and so out of his character that he would submit so willingly.  
She hummed, all night long she sat there, keeping a steady rhythm.  
To be marked by a witch, it was a beautiful but horrific thing.  
Once a witch had claimed a person, has them in her grasp, there is nothing she won't do for them, and nothing they won't do for her. That suppose is the beautiful part.  
But as a price they are linked to her forever, they can never seek out a romantic partnership with another person, if they do, that person will ultimately die, in whatever way the witch sees fits the crime.  
A witch is possessive, manipulative, the person they have claimed will never have control, it is now in their nature to be submissive in all acts. And tragically, if the witch is to somehow die, so do they.  
Its not a choice, they can't escape it. 

As the sun rose she ran her thumb over his lips, a gesture to wake the man. Sherlock's eyes open and he turns, and blinks, looking around blearily.  
He's met with her face, looking down on him. He doesn't move away, he isn't even frightened, not anymore. Reaching he touches her hair, brushing it away from her face. Émilie smiled at the gesture. She held his wrist and glanced at the waxing moon on his wrist, mirroring her own. A soft laugh of triumph left her lips, he is completely her's, from this moment.  
Gold stared into icy blue, they looked at one another, unblinking. For a moment her own eye colour flashed back at her from his own eyes.  
She opened her mouth to sing again;  
"Ain't it a gentle sound, the rollin' in the graves?  
Ain't it like thunder under earth, the sound it makes?  
Ain't it excitin' you, the rumble where you lay?  
Ain't you my baby?  
Ain't you my babe?"  
Sherlock nodded, an almost robotic gesture.  
Proudly she smiled and went back to stroking his hair, she would not kiss him, not yet, she wanted to hear him beg for her. It would please her greatly.  
Moving her hand down she pressed it to his chest, feeling his heartbeat against her palm, calm and slow. Slowly his own hand came to rest atop her own.  
"Dear Sherlock," she whispered. "You are mine to control, are you aware?"  
"Yes," he whispered almost as soon as the words left her lips.  
"You are mine," she whispered again, "mine and mine alone."  
"I belong to you," he swore, Émilie raised her head, tears welled in her eyes.  
"Only you."  
She wasn't alone anymore, no longer in solitude. She had her love back, and he could never leave her.  
Never again, she won't be left alone again.


	4. Pleasure, Monsieur

Days went by, John was still completely unaware of who she was, he never knew who Sherlock was speaking too in his bedroom, the door was always locked from the outside. That soft voice that spoke to him, and he returned her softness with what seemed like genuine affection. John noted on the times that Sherlock had called her:   
"Angel"  
Or   
"Mon ange."  
He was unaware that Sherlock spoke French, but so did she, in fact her whole accent was a faded French.   
John wanted to meet her, this woman that seems to have Sherlock so enamoured, girlfriend perhaps? Or just lovers?   
He wanted to know everything.   
John waited until the morning to confront him about it but Sherlock never answered him directly.   
The next morning the door was unlocked and Sherlock was sound asleep, he thought he was alone, until he saw a pair of glowing golden eyes staring at him from the darkness. In a panic he turned the light on, but there was nothing there. Just a grumpy, half awake Sherlock.   
John apologized but noted how disappointed Sherlock seemed about his bed being empty. He seemed cross with John all day, much to his dismay.   
It wasn't until they were at Bart's Lab where he brought it up. Molly was with them too, after her boyfriend Jim had left. She had some work to do of her own but stayed away from Sherlock.   
In John's eyes, when she got too close she appeared frightened, it was weird, sure Sherlock was tall and a little imposing with a deep baritone but he wasn't a scary man.   
"Who is she, Sherlock?"   
"Who's who?"   
"The woman, the one who's in your bedroom every night."   
"I don't know what your talking about," his tone was nonchalant as he continued to examine the dirt samples found on the sneakers they found in 221C.   
"Don't play stupid with me, Sherlock. You know exactly who I'm talking about. The one with the French accent, the one you call "mon ange"!" His tone was almost mocking, but yet he was fed up with the secrets.   
Sherlock said nothing.   
Suddenly, as if by a spell the door opened and a woman with long mahogany hair stepped in. She was pretty but Sherlock stared at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world.   
She wore the same outfit the first time she showed her face in the modern world.   
Smiling she looked at Sherlock who stood up so fast he knocked the stool over. She held her hand out for him, he wasted no time walking over and taking it.  
"I'm surprised to see you." He said.   
Émilie pouted, placing a hand on his chest, over his heart, he shivered from her cool skin. "I thought you would be thrilled."   
"Oh I am! Believe me, mon ange, I am."   
John watched as his tone changed, voice an octave higher, he looked like a lovesick puppy dog at this moment, it was frightening really. He looked at this woman like she was everything to him, like she held his entire life in her hands. And unbeknownst to John, she did.   
"Are you going to introduce me to your friends, mon chéri?"   
Sherlock suddenly remembered they weren't alone in the lab and turned towards John, hand around her waist, forgetting Molly altogether.   
"John this is my girlfriend, Émilie." He turned to her, "Émilie, this is John Watson."   
Émilie smiled at John and nodded, "pleasure, Monsieur."   
John was at a loss for words, he didn't know what to say. The first time he brought up Sherlock having a boyfriend or girlfriend he said no, but now here he was, with a girl on his arm. It all seemed so sudden somehow.   
He was about to pay no mind to it until he saw her eyes, golden, like the ones he saw in the dark.   
And like Molly, he soon was forgotten, Sherlock took Émilie to where he was working to show her, he stared at the woman like he expected her to praise him, and she did. 

_____________________________

Émilie met them in the cover of darkness. She was dressed properly and appropriately, in a frock of deep green and wine, it was once of her fancier gowns from Paris, a wedding gift from her mother, complete with embroidery, square neckline lined with lace and engageantes.   
She wore it with her pointed hat and joined her friends in a dark pub. The building was completely black from the outside and inconspicuous, no mortal knew of it. The interior was dim and smoky, candles littered the tables, smoke from pipes and cigarettes filled the air, they chose a booth in the back, half circle against the wall, brown leather and oak table.   
The girls ordered a bottle of wine and shared a drink. Lucie was in a dress of pink and yellow, Giselle was pretty in turquoise and Yvette was beautiful in jade.   
"Alors, Émilie, comment vas-tu?" Yvette asked, pouring herself another glass.   
"Oh tu sais," she started, fiddling with her glass. "Rien de très important."   
"Et ce garçon de Holmes dont tu nous as parlé? Que lui est-il arrivé?" Giselle asked.   
Émilie shifted in her seat, Yvette sighed and rubbed her temple.   
"Oh Émilie, you didn't."   
"Didn't what?" Lucie was the confused one in the conversation, looking between her two friends.   
"She marked the poor boy!" Yvette's whisper was harsh.   
"You did not!"   
Émilie shrugged in her defence, "I had no choice!"   
"You always have a choice, Millie, always."   
Émilie sighed, "not this time. I mean what if he is William come back? Souls can only be trapped in Hades for so long before they have to find another host!"   
"I know, I know, but at least tell me you didn't mark him as a child."  
"Firstly he wasn't a child, he was fifteen and no, I waited until he was a man."   
"Have you two had...amorous congress?" Lucie asked, playing with one of her curls.   
Émilie shook her head, "no, we have not. I haven't even kissed him if I'm being honest."   
Yvette tutted and refilled her glass, "how much longer do you intend to torture the man, Millie?"   
She looked at her friend with a stern face and said, "until I decide otherwise." 

______________________________

A breeze, just a simple breeze drew their attention to the door, they had left it open and Émilie was standing there with a big smile on her face.   
John was surprised, not in a good way.  
Sherlock was also surprised, in a good way.   
He left his work almost immediately to tend to the woman.   
"Were you busy?"   
Sherlock shook his head, "oh no, nothing too important I assure."   
"Really? Because judging by the look on John's face, what ever you were doing was really important."   
The room darkened, thunder rumbled outside, shaking the glass on the windows.   
Émilie looked at Sherlock with a dark gaze, disappointment in her pale face.   
"Are you a good boy, Sherlock?" She asked, the question made John feel like he was invading some kind of privacy, yet he was unavailable to move.   
"Yes," the tall man whispered.   
"Do good boys lie?"   
"No."   
"So tell me the truth, were you busy?"  
"Yes."   
Suddenly the darkness lifted and the thunder stop, returning the night to its still.  
"That's all you had to say mon chéri," Émilie touched his cheek and stepped away from Sherlock, but he took a step forward. Émilie held out a finger to stop him, "when you're done, you know where to find me."   
Sherlock watched her leave from the kitchen door, a pitiful whimper left his lips.   
John cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to remind his friend of his existence.   
Sherlock felt colour drain from his face, knowing his best friend just witnessed what was usually done in privacy. Clearing his throat, he gave his cheek a scratch, sniffed and went back to work, they only had a few hours left to solve the puzzle.


End file.
